


Nail Polish

by dasyatidae



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cigarettes, M/M, Mess, Nail Polish, PWP, but everyone is having fun, except it’s a hotel room, not super well-negotiated, sort of a D/s dynamic, stuck in the safe house trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 16:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12868149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dasyatidae/pseuds/dasyatidae
Summary: “If only I got shut in hotel rooms with you all the time, darling. I’d be the best manicured dream thief in the business.”





	Nail Polish

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno, this is a little thing that I wrote in bits and pieces all summer, almost entirely while drinking margaritas at the punk bar down the street. >:)
> 
> Many thanks to brookebond for the beta! <3!

 

“Hold still. You messed up the little one again.” Arthur leaned forward and tightened his grip on Eames’s foot with his steadying hand. “Yep. All over the cuticle.”

“I didn’t move, pet,” Eames swore. “Hand must’ve twitched. Well, are you going to fix it?” He waggled his toes.

“Stop that! Jesus!” Arthur glared at him. “This is stupid, by the way,” he muttered, an afterthought, a weak attempt to belie how seriously he was taking the task. “Except, really. Stop moving your toes. Stay still. You’re going to ruin everything.”

“Fine, fine.” Eames lowered himself back against the mound of pillows he’d been using to prop himself up against the wall of the hotel room. He actually had a better view of Arthur’s adorable expression—his forehead scrunched, his lower lip bitten in concentration—from his half-reclined position, but Arthur this way had a lovely miasma about him, a subtle gravitational pull. Eames kept finding himself leaning forward, wanting to get as close to the operation as possible.

Arthur was painting Eames’s toenails with slow, careful brush strokes, hmphing critically every time he erred. Eames knew for a fact that he was nic-fitting like crazy—probably the reason he had given in to Eames’s audacious request. He needed to have something to focus his restless energy on. A pull-up routine, a shower, and a 7x7 rubix cube blind solve that Eames had curiously timed hadn’t exhausted his nervous energy. But his hand that wielded the nail polish brush hadn’t wavered at all, despite Eames’s accusation. Honestly, Eames was amazed Arthur was being so pleasant. Last time Eames had tried to quit smoking, it had felt like a swarm of bees was settling on him, building catacombs beneath his skin, and he had nearly beaten his extractor to a pulp for cheating at a casual game of cribbage.

Actually, Eames was starting to feel the return of, if not the whole swarm, then the bee hive’s scouts, winging lazy, exploratory circles, tickling his skin—especially his ankle where Arthur’s long-fingered, pale hand had him in an inexorable grip. Arthur was probably cutting off Eames’s circulation. That was probably the reason. Or perhaps it was the time Eames had gone without a smoke. He had leaned out the window for a quick cigarette while Arthur was in the shower out of common decency, but that had been an hour ago. (It was worth more than his life to light up with Arthur in the room. Plus, Eames wasn’t cruel.)

Arthur was on his stomach across the bed, propped up on his elbows. He had one of Eames’s legs bent up, knee splayed out a bit, so he could paint the toes on that foot. “I don’t see how this could possibly help you get into character,” he complained. “Here, hold this.” He reached out and pressed the bottle of lime green polish into Eames’s hand. “I mean, this color, it isn’t even—” He made a sweeping, circling gesture with his now free hand, then bent forward again to carefully swipe some of the overflow paint off the skin around Eames’s pinky toenail.

“Isn’t what?”

“A particularly feminine color,” Arthur muttered.

“Oh, don’t be so narrow, pet. I think it’s cheery.”

“I swear to God, if you wiggle your toes one more time…I’ve already re-done this one twice.”

“You have to do them twice over anyway. If you want the color to _pop_.”

“Whatever.”

“I like the green. It’s kind of hard femme, don’t you think? Besides, it’s not about being perfectly feminine. The polish helps with balance, you know.”

Arthur snorted and darted an incredulous look up at Eames before doing something entirely unexpected, something that made Eames nearly choke on his own saliva. Arthur pursed those pretty thin lips of his and began to blow on Eames’s toes. There was no way Eames was going to be able to hold still, oh God. But Arthur had wrapped his other hand around the arch of Eames’s foot, and he was holding Eames so steady—his breath, rushing back and forth over Eames’s toes, was gentle. Arthur did something else crazy: he rubbed his thumb along the arch of Eames’s foot, a heavy, intentional stroke that felt so good that Eames let out a little gasp—which he immediately tried to cover with a cough. Too enthusiastic. He actually did choke on his own saliva then. Arthur raised his eyebrows but didn’t look up. He blew on Eames’s toes again.

“You give too much of yourself away, darling,” Eames sputtered.

“Never for nothing” was Arthur’s amicable reply. More blowing. “There’s always something to get in return.”

It was too easy, an opening mile wide. Eames let it go.

“Ariadne let me take the polish from her room,” Eames said, as Arthur commanded, “Other foot!” and Eames compliantly switched, stretching his finished dry toes out on the bed alongside Arthur’s lean body. “I really do like to do little things to get in character.”

“I think Ms. Richards would go for a less flashy color. A more conventional color—more like, like a bright cherry. Something to go with espadrilles.”

Eames smiled. “Your professional opinion?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Well, this is a color that _I’d_ go for. I like painting my nails.”

“You mean you like _having_ your nails painted,” Arthur said, not missing a beat. “Lazy bastard.”

“If only I got shut in hotel rooms with you all the time, darling. I’d be the best manicured dream thief in the business.”

“Not likely while I’m around,” Arthur murmured, intent as he painted Eames’s big toe. “You’re doing me next.”

“Darling,” Eames said, voice low in a way he couldn’t help, hearing Arthur say those words, even out of the context he had long wanted. “You know I’ll do you anytime.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “I’m sure.”

“You wouldn’t want us to be twins, would you?”

“What?” Arthur looked up, confused.

Eames laughed but felt like he really should clarify instead of lingering in the possibilities of _that_ misunderstanding; they were too early in their not-relationship to do the kinky roleplay. “I mean, _you_ don’t want neon green nails.”

Arthur smirked and went back to finishing Eames’s second foot—and then blowing again, fuck. “Ari has other colors,” he said between breaths. “I might have borrowed a dark blue that doesn’t offend my exacting aesthetic sensibilities.”

“Well,” Eames said but didn’t know quite how to continue with the thought. Arthur did the second coat; he’d picked up speed, accuracy. He did everything well, ruthlessly well, damn him.

“We’ll let those air dry,” Arthur said.

When he crawled up the bed between Eames’s legs, Eames couldn’t catch his breath—but he was just placing the polish bottle on the bedside table. “Stay very still,” Arthur told him, quietly now, but stern. They were nearly nose to nose. “If you mess up that polish…”

“I told you, I’m—” Eames swallowed, shaking the protest off like the buzzing distraction it was—distraction from Arthur kneeling between his legs, bracing himself with one hand on the mattress near Eames’s waist and with the other on Eames’s bare shoulder, his thumb stroking at the skin beneath his undershirt. “If you kiss me now,” Eames said, “I’ll think you’re nic-fitting so hard, you’re trying to lick the nicotine from my mouth.”

“I’m counting on it. You know I’m just fucking around with you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, silky voice catching a little on the lie. He was tracing the line of Eames’s jaw with one green-smudged finger. He was a darling liar up close to Eames—every twitch of his mouth, every flutter of those dark lashes a tell. Usually, out on a job, he was much, much better. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he said.

He nipped at Eames’s lips, had his tongue down Eames’s throat so quickly, before Eames could say anything else. Instinctively, Eames brought his hands up to wrap around the back of Arthur’s neck; with a mind of their own, they had been waiting, aching, it seemed, to dig into his dark hair and mess up its impeccably combed neatness. Arthur, still one step ahead of him, pulled back suddenly and captured Eames’s wrists in that cold vice grip. “Careful.”

“What? They’re dry,” Eames protested.

“They haven’t _set_ yet.” Arthur’s voice was low and dead serious. Eames swallowed, looked away from Arthur’s eyes and down at his green fingernails. They were fine. They had been dry these past forty minutes at least. “Eames,” Arthur said, voice commanding, kind of contrary. “Do you want to do this or not?”

Eames practically whimpered. “Darling—”

“Don’t you want to be _beautiful_ ,” Arthur asked, but how he pronounced the words—it wasn’t a question. “I’ve labored to paint you just so, to make you beautiful. You wouldn’t want to mess that up, would you?”

“No…” Eames began, and what did he expect? Now that they didn’t go by Cobb’s rules, they almost always played by Arthur’s.

“Unless,” Arthur drew back and bit his lower lip, his expression taking on a regretful cast. “Unless…you don’t care,” he said sadly. Eames bit back what might’ve manifested as a moan—or perhaps a growl—of frustration. Arthur’s cool, long fingers, which a moment before had been finding their way under the waistband of his sweats, had withdrawn. They now rested atop Arthur’s thighs as he sat back and regarded Eames with those soulful, earnest brown eyes. Oh, he was so bad. Eames couldn’t even. He had to stop himself from squirming. He had to stop himself from digging his apparently-delicate manicure into Arthur’ still shower-damp curls.

“I do care,” Eames said instead, not through gritted teeth, no. He made his voice small, a supplicant’s tentative inflection coating the syllables.

“Yeah?” Arthur tipped his head back. Oh, his long, tan neck—unblemished, perfect—it was a fucking crime worse than the one their team had just committed that Eames couldn’t surge forward and get that perfect skin between his teeth. The thought did it, confirmed it—he was so hard—he was ready to be taken in hand—fuck—if Arthur had any decency or mercy at all—

Arthur was waiting.

Eames cleared his throat, which felt so thick, all of a sudden. “I do care about being beautiful,” he whispered. “I—oh fuck—”

It was the right answer. Arthur’s fingers slid back into his sweats, discovered he hadn’t bothered putting on pants. Wrapped firmly around his suffering cock. Eames knew better than to relax into the touch. Arthur was out for his blood, ready to play with him until he unravelled and came apart.

“I care that you made me beautiful,” he continued.

Arthur hummed his approval and shifted close again so he could torture Eames with his wet, parted lips, hovering just an inch away from Eames’s.

“I—uh—I mean, thank you, for making me beautiful.”

“You’re so ungrateful,” Arthur mourned. He was beginning to stroke Eames in quick, competent strokes, smearing his weeping pre-come over his entire length.

“N-no,” Eames gasped.

Arthur’s other hand came up and began to squeeze, to feel up the muscles of Eames’s right shoulder, his chest, his bicep.

“No?”

“I _am_ grateful,” Eames insisted.

“How are you going to prove it to me, _darling_?”

On his hands and knees, if necessary. Eames would do anything _,_ if Arthur would only— “Fuck me.”

“Mm, what was that?”

“You can fuck me,” Eames said, louder. “Or—you can fuck my mouth. I want you to. Please, Arthur.”

Arthur sucked in an audibly shuddering breath and began to yank open the slacks he had put on after his shower. Eames considered that he might never see Arthur dressed-down, but he might, if he played his cards right, see him naked.

“Don’t even,” Arthur said, as Eames brushed one of his Oxford’s buttons with the pad of his thumb.

“Do you think I could undo the buttons with my teeth?”

“I think if you bite the buttons off my shirt, I will choke you. In a non-fun way.” Arthur unbuttoned the shirt, yanked his t-shirt over his head, threw both onto the floor. “Come here.”

Eames wriggled down lower on the pillows, and Arthur shifted forward. He rubbed the tip of his cock over Eames’s parted lips. Eames could taste his pre-cum. God.

“Open your mouth. Don’t touch me. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Eames’s grin would have been of epic proportions, would have gotten him in trouble. Luckily, his lips couldn’t betray him; they were wrapped around Arthur’s cock. Arthur held his face between his hands with a gentleness at odds with the rough way he began to fuck the back of Eames’s throat.

“Oh, fuck, Eames,” he said, like the words were torn out of him. From the little whining, gasping noises he made as he thrust, Eames thought he must like the scrape of teeth.

Eames wanted to watch, but his eyes blurred with tears. He loved the way time slowed down in moments like this. His life was simple, breath to breath, he just had to keep going; he just had to _take it,_ to not gag, to not throw up. He fought to keep his hands relaxed, held to his sides, fingers spread so he wouldn’t smudge or nick the polish.

Arthur rubbed his thumbs very softly over his cheekbones. That was the only warning before he moaned, and Eames tasted his come, felt him thrusting even further into Eames’s throat, till fuck, Eames _was_ gagging. Then Arthur drew back, still coming on Eames’s mouth, tipping Eames’s head back to smear come on his throat. His skin tingling, itching, where it was wet with come, Arthur’s taste, Arthur leaning over him, bracing himself on the wall, on Eames shoulders, breathing heavily—all of this, and he was nearly blindsided by the sensation of Arthur slumping down to grab his cock—and kiss him and kiss him, a messy, insistent kiss, Arthur’s come everywhere, smeared across Eames’s stubble. Arthur twisted his long, clever fingers around Eames’s cock—he bit Eames’s bottom lip—and Eames let go, fucking up into Arthur’s fist.

Vaguely, he realized he was still holding his hands aloft, and he let them drop and sink into the quilted bedspread. God, they were both a mess, but his nails were perfect.

Eames’s mind was so cluttered with stars that he had rolled over and fished his cigarettes out of the jacket he’d tossed across the hotel nightstand, had placed one to his lips with shaking hands, before he realized what he was doing. Fuck. No smoking in front of Arthur, Arthur was—

Arthur was holding out a lighter, lighting Eames’s cigarette.

Eames pulled till the tip glowed, and Arthur, still half sprawled across him, plucked it from his mouth and flopped back on the mattress, taking a long drag and exhaling smoke with a dreamy sigh. He batted Eames’s reaching hand away easily.

“Oh my days, this was all a ploy for a post coital cigarette,” Eames said a few minutes later.

Arthur looked smug, dropping the cigarette butt in the empty beer bottle next to the bed. He had smoked the damn thing down to the filter. “Told you I was fucking with you, Mr. Eames.”

Then he curled up on Eames’s chest, snuggled close under Eames’s chin, and Eames grinned. “Whatever you say, pumpkin.” He dug his perfectly-manicured green nails into Arthur’s messy dark hair, dry now and curling adorably, and the point man responded with a drowsy purr instead of barking an order or a warning. So that was how much time Arthur believed nails needed to dry and set: enough time for him to reach orgasm. Whatever, Eames could deal. He laughed and felt Arthur press his cheek against the rumble of his chest.

Before round two, while Arthur was drowsing, languid and loose in a way Eames had seen before perhaps _never_ , Eames painted his nails dark blue.

  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm vaguely on tumblr [here](http://coffeecupandcorgi.tumblr.com/). <3


End file.
